


tried, tested, and dedicated

by mariahlee



Series: always faithful, always hopeful [1]
Category: Captain America (Movies), The Avengers (Marvel Movies)
Genre: Alternate Universe, Anxiety Attacks, F/M, M/M, Military Background, Multi, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Service Dogs
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-08-15
Updated: 2018-08-15
Packaged: 2019-06-27 14:36:55
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 12,667
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15687399
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/mariahlee/pseuds/mariahlee
Summary: Steve and Natasha are former black op soldiers trying to find their way after returning home. Sam's the new neighbor who wants to help.





	tried, tested, and dedicated

**Author's Note:**

> DEAR. GOD. This fic has been years in the making. I absolutely love the three of these characters together. I’m terrified of posting this, but this fic also feels like an old friend. There are parts I still don’t like, but I figure every author feels that way. I don’t even know if there’s an audience for this pairing, so for those who have bravely clicked: I hope you like it.
> 
> Based on the AU prompt: our dogs whine whenever they’re apart so we spend pretty much every day together.
> 
> (And yes, all the documentaries that Natasha watches are real.)

"Steve, your dog is staring at me."

Steve looks over his shoulder. Bailey is sitting a few feet from Natasha, calm and straight. Looking every bit like a well behaved service dog, if it weren't for him licking his lips every few seconds.

"Sorry," Steve calls out. "Ever since I dropped that meatball on the floor a few weeks ago, Bailey's obsessed with spaghetti. If you sit at the table, he'll probably leave you alone."

Natasha twirls a huge bunch of pasta around her fork, eating it as slowly as possible while Bailey watches mournfully.

"Or," Steve says, topping off his own pasta with marinara, "you could be an asshole."

"I pick option B," Natasha says, tucking her feet underneath her. She sets the bowl on her lap and pats the seat next to her. "Come."

"If you're watching that documentary about cat dancers again, I'm going to shave your head in the middle of the night."

"Nah," Natasha says. "Just the one with that guy who wants to bang Bugs Bunny."

Steve rolls his eyes. "Right."

"I am totally, one hundred percent serious."

Steve squints at the TV, then pales. "Oh, dear God. Turn it off. You're scaring Bailey."

Bailey, who had given up on the spaghetti, was happily chewing on a bone in the corner of the room. Natasha simply grins and plops her feet on Steve's lap.

*

Steve has known Natasha for the last seven years. They spent six of those years serving overseas in a black ops unit. She first viewed him as a pretty boy who just wanted to look cool in front of his friends; he first viewed her as a cold and emotionless woman running away from her past.

Somewhere along the way, between that first year of training (and squabbling) and their first year in the field, things changed. Steve would trust no one else with his life, and she felt the same about him. There was rarely a moment that they weren't in each other's presence, and they never slept at the same time, one always standing guard over the other. Nothing was said if Steve woke up with his head in her lap or her face buried in his neck.

The right side of Natasha’s face is covered in scars from when she pushed him away from a shrapnel bomb. Steve still suffers from migraines resulting from the TBI he suffered when he caught her in midair after her cord snapped. The first thing Natasha saw when she woke up in the military hospital was the guilt on Steve's face. The first thing Steve saw when he woke up was her steeled glare, belied by how she was tucked into a little ball in the chair next to his bed. The first thing he truly remembers is exchanging dog tags when they learn he’s being discharged. 

Neither one of them talk about it. Natasha wears his tags under her clothes most days, while he prefers to clutch hers to his chest while he sleeps. Nor do they bother discussing plans about living together when returning home, because there was never a question of them not being together.

Life without Natasha scares him more than anything else. She's the one who convinced him to apply for a service dog when he continued to have anxiety attacks in public places. Bailey fits into his life as easily as Natasha does; he's quick by Steve's side when his breathing quickens, or when he stops suddenly in the grocery store. He carefully curls along Steve's side in bed at night, licking his face when he wakes from a nightmare.

Bailey slips into Natasha's room at times, and the door is closed for thirty minutes or so before they both emerge, Natasha's eyes a little red.

Steve likes it best when Natasha crawls into his bed instead. He loves how she'll sing quietly, or run her fingers through his hair. How she'll lay her head over his heart and he can breathe in her strawberry shampoo.

He wonders what it would be like to kiss her. Wondering is all he does, though, because he doesn't want to risk losing her.

*

Every day, Steve and Natasha go for a run at 0630. Other days, when one of them is having a particularly rough time, the other drags them out the door for another run. Sometimes, they need another run at night to burn off the extra energy.

One Saturday night, it's Natasha's turn for a bad day. Steve slips her shoes on and ties them, then hands her Bailey's leash. Lucky for them, Bailey can easily run as fast and far as they can. They do this so often that their neighbors know better than to engage them in conversation when they get back.

Well, except today.

Bailey stops dead when they climb to their floor, his hackles raised. Natasha is already in her fighting stance, coiled to strike. 

"Shh," Steve whispers, listening closely: all he can hear is a dog whining. He takes one step away from the door -

" _Fuck!_ " someone shouts from the apartment across from them, and things happen fast. Natasha hisses and squares her shoulders, Bailey growls, and Steve manages to tuck them both behind him.

"What are you whining about, do you ever shut up -" and Steve's quick instincts are all that stops Natasha and Bailey from attacking the man who opened the door.

"Whoa," he says when he sees them, them another " _whoa_ ," as a border collie darts between his legs.

Natasha, deeming them to no longer be a threat, exhales slowly. The border collie has quickly taken to sniffing Bailey's face. Bailey stands still, dignified, as if he's disgusted by such primal display. 

The man's eyes glance over Natasha's scars for the briefest of moments, quick enough that only Steve's trained eye would notice. Steve, prepared for questions, takes another step in front of Natasha. Luckily, the man's expression doesn't change, that exasperated but amused smirk still on his lips.

"I thought getting a dog would be a good idea. Except Charlie is a huge pain in my ass. I swear he hates me."

Steve blinks, unable to come up with anything coherent.

"Maybe he just wants a friend," Natasha says with a coy grin, Charlie now sitting in front of her with his eyes closed. She's always been able to recover more quickly than Steve does. He turns to look at Natasha scratching Charlie behind his ears, her hands trembling just a bit.

"You suck," the man says to Charlie. "You so totally suck. You're going to be a complete asshole again as soon as we go back inside."

"He just wants a treat," Natasha croons, back straight as she heads into their apartment to the kitchen, Charlie right on her heels. Bailey remains where he is, but Steve sees the greedy look in his eyes as he watches Natasha leave.

"May I pet him?" the man asks.

"What? Oh," Steve says, realizing that Bailey's vest, which says _Please ask before petting me, I'm working_ is still on. He unbuckles the vest and slips it off; the second he's free, Bailey launches himself at the man, licking his face. The man laughs and scratches Bailey's back.

"I'm Sam, by the way," he says, after Bailey has calmed down a bit. "I moved into 4A this morning. Well, still in process of moving, anyway."

"I'm Steve, that's Natasha," Steve answers, gesturing for Sam to follow them inside. 

"Want a beer?" Natasha calls out, and Bailey tears into the kitchen, presumably under the impression that he's missing out on treats with Charlie.

"If you're having one," Sam says.

"Duh," Natasha says, carrying three bottles with one hand and a box of Oreos in the other. She pops the cap off her beer with one hand while opening the Oreos with the other. Sam looks at his own beer.

"That's - that's not a twist off."

Natasha grins around the cookie in her mouth. No one would have guessed how she looked just a few moments ago. "Nope."

"So - oh, for crying out loud," Sam says when he sees that Steve is already drinking his beer. "Do you have a bottle opener that this mortal could use?"

Natasha pretends to give a baffled expression. "I'm sorry, I don't know what that means."

They chat while drinking their beer, and Steve likes him instantly because he's funny, kind, and genuine. Steve’s almost forgotten that these types of people exist, but to be fair, he’s essentially been a hermit since returning home.

Natasha offers Sam a second beer, but he shakes his head. "Hey, so, early neighborly request here...would it be okay if Charlie stays with you for a bit? Just a bit. He's getting in the way of moving everything; I've already almost tripped over him about seven times."

"Sure," Steve says, watching as Bailey and Charlie chew on the same huge bone.

Sam gives them a grateful smile, and Steve finds himself watching Sam close the door behind him.

"He's cute," Natasha says with a pointed look. Steve gives one right back.

"Yep."

"He was trying very hard to pretend like he wasn't staring at you."

Steve sighs. "Stop, Nat."

Natasha sobers. It's somewhat of an inside joke with Natasha trying to fix him up with random people. He humored it at the beginning, but now it just makes him ache.

"Sorry," she mumbles, drinking almost all of her second beer in one take.

Steve sits back on the couch and holds out one arm; she presses herself against his side. He can't help but stroke her bicep aimlessly while watching the dogs. He almost says it. He does. Three words. He can do that.

He chickens out.

*

Natasha begs out of their morning run a few days later, saying that she didn't sleep well. Steve, who normally wouldn’t allow that excuse, decides to not press her on it. He just gives her a hug and snaps Bailey's leash on his harness. As he locks the door behind him, Sam's own door opens.

"Oh, that's why," Sam says, rolling his eyes at Charlie, who’s panting and wearing that doggie smile next to Sam.

Steve turns. "What?”

"He's been whining at the door for the last five minutes. You mind? I'm taking Charlie to work today."

Charlie immediately begins straining to reach Bailey, wheezing. "Stupid dog," Sam says, rolling his eyes. "You’re gonna strangle yourself."

Bailey doesn't move an inch; while he's wearing the vest, he takes his job very seriously. Charlie continues to whine, but at least he's walking at a somewhat normal pace as they head down the hall.

"Got a bit of a late start this morning, so I'm gonna see how Charlie does at work. Figure if nothing else, I can put him in my office with a toy or treat."

"Where do you work?"

"The VA," Sam grunts as Charlie gives a particularly rough tug at the leash. 

"Oh." 

Steve runs by it most days. Sometimes he wonders what it would be like to go inside.

Sam, as if he knows what Steve is thinking, says, "You could come by for lunch or something sometime. If you wanted. Or for any other reason."

"I'll think about it," Steve says vaguely, and he knows that Sam can see through the lie. Being black ops, he's been long trained not to speak about what he does. It's a hard habit to break.

"I was Air Force. Pararescue. Two tours in Iraq."

A million cliches surge to mind, but he swallows all of them down. "Oh."

Sam gives him a knowing look. "Some stuff you leave there. Some stuff you bring back."

Steve's a master at deflection, though; he dodges the unspoken question. "You happy to be back?"

Sam shrugs. "Happy, not really. I prefer to be back, though. Started losing reasons to be over there, you know?"

Steve doesn't. "I guess."

"What about you?"

"I never said I was military."

Sam snorts. "Right. Of course not."

Steve finds his lips twitching, despite everything. "Army. SpecOps."

"Shit," Sam says. "That's intense. Any reasons that would want you to stay in?"

"Just one, really."

"That reason happened to live with you?"

Steve, somehow not surprised by Sam's insight, sees no point in denying it. "Yeah."

For a moment, Steve thinks Sam's going to press the issue, but they continue to walk silently for a few minutes.

Sam clears his throat. "I got Charlie so I wouldn't be lonely."

Steve's not sure why that strikes him so strongly. "You -?"

"Yep. Lonely. You surprised?"

"Yeah. You just seem so - so well put together."

"Mm."

Steve winces. "Sorry, I didn't mean to offend you."

Sam waves a hand. "You didn't." He sighs. "The place was too damn quiet. Gave me too much time to think."

Steve looks at Bailey. "I know what you mean." Then, he finds himself continuing: "Time to think about what?"

Steve wonders if he's asked too much too soon, but Sam replies quickly. "Lost my best friend, Riley. Shot down right in the damn sky in front of me. I was helpless, you know? Like I had no other purpose overseas than to watch him die. He was right there, and I couldn't grab him in time."

"I'm sorry," Steve says. He bites his lip, feeling like he owes Sam something in return. "I almost lost Nat. I made a stupid mistake and she ended up paying for it."

Steve's ready for Sam to say _I'm sure it wasn't your fault_ or something similar, like everyone else. To his surprise, Sam simply asks, "What happened?"

"Got bad intel. I should have realized it was bad, but...I don't know. Nat ended up pushing me away so she could take the blast from a shrapnel bomb."

Sam nods. He doesn't have that pitiful look that Steve has come to expect. "Why should you have realized it was bad?"

"What?"

"Why should you have known the intel was bad?" Sam repeats.

Steve flounders. "I - I don't know. I'm better than that. I shouldn't - I shouldn't have missed it."

"Well, until you can give a concrete, factual reason, I'm going to have to respectfully disagree."

Steve bristles. "You weren't there -"

"Nope, I wasn't," Sam says, unaffected. "It just sounds like you're putting too much on yourself because you need to feel guilty."

Steve tries to keep an even temper. "I think you’re wrong.”

"Fine," Sam says with a shrug. "I can just tell you I felt the same way. There was nothing I could have done to protect Riley, but I needed to believe I could have. You know why? Because I refused to believe there were things that could happen beyond my control. Because otherwise, the same bad thing could happen to me. To my family. To other people I love. And I wouldn't be able to do a thing to protect them. It's much easier to believe that if I did everything _right_ from now on, nothing bad would happen to me or my loved ones ever again. But it didn't matter that I did everything right. I didn't mess up, but it still happened. Riley died. I still feel guilty, absolutely. But I also know I wasn't responsible for his death." 

Steve's mouth goes dry. "Oh."

"Well, this is my stop," Sam says, stopping at the stairs to the VA. "You wanna...you wanna come inside?"

Steve shakes his head. He can't form any words.

"No problem," Sam says with a smile. "I'll see you later?"

"Yeah," Steve finally manages to say. "Later."

He goes on an extra long run with Bailey after that. When he gets home, he stumbles into bed, ignoring Natasha's concerned look.

Things will be different in the morning.

...one of these days, that'll be accurate.

*

"Come on, you jerk."

"Ugh," Steve mutters, pushing away Clint's finger in his face. He's still tired from spending the last three days in bed. He considers today an accomplishment: he showered, shaved, and has arrived at a socially appropriate venue with a friend. 

Clint, who is funny and extroverted and easy to be around. Clint, who is everything that Steve is not.

"I'm starving,” Clint says, looking around the diner. “I need chocolate chip pancakes. Don't let me forget to bring some home fries for Lucky."

"You really shouldn't be feeding your dog human food," Steve says, as perfunctory as ever; Clint always brings something home for Lucky whenever they eat out.

Steve met Clint sixth months ago when he brought Bailey to the local dog park. Bailey had immediately bonded with Lucky, and things went from there. Steve is sad to say that Clint is the only person he became friends with that wasn't due to military service.

"Yeah, yeah," Clint says. He salutes Bailey. "'Sup, second best dog in the universe."

Bailey gives Cliff a delicate sniff and lays down under their booth. He keeps his head up while he surveys the diner. Satisfied, Steve puts in an order for coffee and waffles.

"Anything new?" Clint says as he stirs sugar in his coffee. 

A new neighbor is probably small news to people with, well, normal, busy lives, but Steve has neither. "Mr. Carson moved out."

"The guy whose apartment always smelled like coconuts?"

"That's the one. New guy moved in last week."

"Yeah? What he's like?"

"He's cool," Steve says. "I like him a lot."

"Hmm," Clint says.

"What?"

"That's impressive, considering you like a total of what, four people? Half of which are dogs."

"That's not true," Steve starts, then stops. "Huh."

"No, I didn't mean to make you feel bad," Clint says quickly. "I think it's great you found a decent guy. Really. You're an awesome dude. You deserve awesome things."

Steve has to smile. "Thanks, Clint."

Clint pats his shoulder in reply. "All right, enough emotions. My pancakes are here."

*

Bailey trots calmly between Clint and Steve as they walk home. Steve’s apartment is on the way to Clint’s, and they chat aimlessly until they’re about to pass by the VA.

_That's him,_ Steve signs.

Clint raises an eyebrow. _What? Who?_

_Our new neighbor. Sam. The guy on the stairs on his cell phone._

Clint gives a careful, quick glance. _Yeah? Nice. I have to admit that is a beautiful man._ He frowns. _Dude, why are we signing. He’s like a hundred feet away. I don’t think he can hear us._

Steve lowers his hands. “Good point.”

“Doesn’t look like he’s very happy,” Clint points out, and it’s true, Sam is almost yelling at the phone. “Come on.”

“Wait, what are you doing?” Steve asks, but Clint is already marching. It’s a true testament to how frustrated Sam is that he doesn’t notice Clint approaching.

When Clint is about ten feet away, he stops and loudly calls out, “Sam!”

Sam looks up, baffled. He first sees Steve, who nods pointedly at Clint. Sam turns to Clint, eyebrow raised.

“You need to get back to work, Sam,” Clint says loudly enough that whoever Sam is speaking to on the phone can hear it. “Use your cell phone on your personal time.”

“Boss is telling me I gotta go,” Sam says into the phone. “Bye.”

Cint bows. “You’re welcome.”

Sam laughs. “Thanks, man.”

“This is my friend, Clint,” Steve says, and Clint and Sam shake hands. “Who were you talking to?”

“My brother,” Sam says. “He’s got a drug problem and only calls me to beg for money. Don’t know why he bothers, I’ve never given him a dime.”

Steve is still amazed at how easily Sam can divulge personal information to strangers without shame, when he even struggles to share his thoughts with Natasha at times.

“That sucks, but good on you for sticking to your guns,” Clint says. “It’s the hardest thing to say no to family.”

“Thanks,” Sam says again, giving Clint a grateful look. “I appreciate the bailout. I should go back to work, though.”

“Anytime,” Clint says, giving a mock tip of the hat. “You can always come out with Cap and me when you want.”

“Sounds awesome,” Sam says with a grin. “See you guys. I’ll see you at home, Cap.”

"Sure, home," Steve says, trying not to stammer. He's not sure he succeeds. Especially because he watches Sam walk away for a moment too long.

"Okay," Clint says, drawing out the word. "What was _that_?"

Steve digs his fingernails in his jeans. "What was what?"

"That look."

"What look?"

Clint rolls his eyes. "The one that looks like you wanted to devour the guy. I just thought that you and N -" he stops. "Never mind. None of my business."

"That's never stopped you before," Steve says, giving Clint a calculating look.

"Either I'm wrong, which, what else is new. Or I'm right, which is way above my pay grade."

Steve's heart leaps. "You thought what?"

Clint looks like he regrets bringing up whatever he wanted to bring up. "It's not - you and Natasha aren't - you know. Right?"

Steve, deciding it's already been enough of a stressful day, says, "Hope Lucky likes the home fries."

"Yeah," Clint says with a sigh. "Hope so too."

*

Wednesday, Natasha gets a call. She kisses Steve's forehand as she crawls out of his bed mid-afternoon. "Could be a gig," she says, giving him a hopeful smile.

"Good luck," Steve says, and he rolls back over after he hears the front door close. Neither Steve nor Natasha hold a steady job; the army has taken care of them rather well. Even if they weren't, they'd probably be in the same place. Neither of them are really suited for the typical job; other skilled people who had perfected the art while they were overseas are more hireable. The rest of the world has moved on without them.

Natasha has only been gone for a few hours, but already he can feel the anxiety creeping in. Bailey jumps on the bed, spins in a circle a few times before curling beside him. He buries his hand in Bailey's fur. He's hungry, knows he should eat, but also fairly confident that there's nothing of worth in the fridge. The idea of ordering food, though, speaking to a stranger, makes him breathe more rapidly. He grabs his phone, grits his teeth, and sends Sam a text. 

**Want to hang out? Order Chinese or something?**

Sam's home, he thinks. Or should be. He saw Sam's car. Should he have knocked on Sam's door? Was it stupid to text when they're right across the hall?

Steve is only able to panic a few seconds before he gets a response. **Of course! Be there in five.**

Okay. Good. That sounded enthusiastic. Although it's fairly easy to achieve through text. Damn. Steve probably should have gotten out of bed first. He's well aware of his sleep clothes and messy hair. Sam doesn't seem to notice, though, or rather he doesn’t care; he hops on the armchair and props his feet up. "Want me to order?" Sam says.

Grateful, Steve nods. "Could you?"

Sam is already dialing. "What do you want?"

"Mongolian beef, please. Oh, and get some chicken with snow peas for Nat. If she sees leftovers in the fridge, she'll be pissed."

"Yup," Sam says, giving the order over the phone. Steve lets his voice wash over him as he closes his eyes again.

He pries them open, though, because he's slept enough as it is. Charlie, who has already sniffed both Bailey and Bailey's empty food bowl, jumps on Steve's lap. "Good day?"

"Not bad. Got an extra cookie out of the vending machine. You?"

Steve looks at his sweatpants. "I almost took Bailey out for a walk today?"

"I'll go with you tomorrow after work, if you want. Or if you want to go alone, you can tell me to fuck off. I won't mind."

Steve finds himself smiling at the idea of having plans. "Yeah. Sounds good."

"Cool." Sam scratches behind Bailey's ears. "You wanna watch Chopped or something?"

Steve reaches for the remote and turns on the TV. "Sure. Something to drink?"

"Water's fine."

He tosses Sam a bottle and they pool their cash for the driver when he arrives. Sam has just gone to the kitchen for a fork when their door opens again.

"I got a new gig!" Natasha says. "Some idiot who invented sleeping bags with arms and legs or something. He decided that the world deserved to know all of his camping and kayaking and white water rafting stories, but really, he's just a lonely dude with seven guppies living next to this woman who keeps stealing his doormat."

Sam laughs. "What the hell?"

Natasha whirls around and has Sam pinned to the ground, her forearm across his throat before Steve can call out a warning. Sam holds his hands up without protest.

Steve wraps his arms around her stiff body, waiting for her to sink into his hold like she always does. She releases a soft sigh as Steve pulls her to her feet, keeping an arm around her shoulder.

"I'm sorry," Natasha says, her gaze a few inches above Sam's face.

"No problem," Sam replies, sitting up and crossing his legs.

Steve taps Natasha's shoulder. He can't help but love the feel of her soft sweater under his fingertips. "So, good news, huh?"

It takes an extra second for her to answer, her voice dull now. "Yeah. He wants at least three hundred pages."

"What's the gig?" Sam asks, his position casual.

"Nat's a ghostwriter," Steve says.

"No shit," Sam says with a laugh. "Really?"

"It's nice to take someone else's life for a time," Natasha says, managing to pull up a smirk. "Even if they're idiots. I'm good, too."

"Damn," Sam laughs. "You're so _cool._ "

"I know," Natasha says, tossing her hair over one shoulder. She turns to Steve and says, "Hey, did you ever hear back from that gastro pub? That art commission they wanted?"

"Turns out they're disgusting homophobes, so I decided against it."

"Dicks," Natasha says with a roll of her eyes.

"You’re an artist?" Sam asks.

Steve lifts a shoulder. "Yeah, I guess."

"Shut up, he's _brilliant_ ," Natasha says. "His art makes me cry."

"Really?" Sam says. "What kind of stuff do you do?"

"Whatever people want, I guess," Steve says.

Sam's smile causes Steve's breath to catch. "Maybe you can show me some stuff _you_ want sometime?" He doesn't give Steve enough time to answer before he's back in the kitchen grabbing his food.

Steve turns to Natasha, who watched the exchange with a look he can't interpret.

"We ordered Chinese," Steve says, and he's proud to say that his stammer would only be noticeable to Natasha.

She doesn't respond for a moment. "You better have gotten me some chicken with snow peas," Natasha finally says, a small, almost sad smile on her face.

"Always," Steve says, and a wave of heat hits him when Natasha squeezes his hand, then follows Sam into the kitchen. He watches as Natasha, for the briefest of moments, gives Sam a quick hug before grabbing her handle of vodka out of the freezer.

Steve's in some deep shit.

*

Steve’s up at three AM a week later, doodling on his sketchbook. He slept too much during the day, so now he’s wide awake. He has some music station set at low volume on his laptop, and he’s using the light to sketch. Suddenly, Bailey starts whining, and Steve jumps out of bed. Bailey has never whined before that Steve can remember.

Steve takes a look through the peephole and sees that it’s just Sam and Charlie. He opens the door a crack and looks out. Sam has a backpack and Charlie immediately starts wagging his tail.

"What's up?"

"Sorry, did I wake you?" Sam asks, locking his door.

"No, I was already up. You going somewhere at three AM?"

Sam shrugs. "The person above me has this alarm that won't stop going off, so I'm gonna go find a hotel."

Steve huffs a laugh. "Yeah, Scott works really weird hours. He also gets distracted easily - I can pick the lock for you if you want."

"Nah, it's cool. I figured tomorrow I'd go up there and see if he was a reasonable guy and not someone who would break me in half."

Steve laughs. "Please. Dude is harmless. Stop by tomorrow after work and he'll take care of it. Might talk your ear off first, though. Don't bother wasting money on a hotel. You can take the couch tonight."

"You sure?"

"Wouldn't have offered if I weren't."

Sam nods his thanks, following Steve inside. He plops down on the couch, sniffing. "Are you cooking potatoes?"

"Maybe," Steve says as he opens the oven to check on them.

Natasha hops the counter so she can dig into the freezer. Sam blinks at her arrival, but Steve, who is by far used to her quiet and random appearances, takes it in stride. "First dibs. After my vodka. I'll take it topped with rosemary, please."

"You're not a guest in this house,” Steve says. “Get your own rosemary."

Sam shakes his head. "Is this a regular occurrence at three in the morning?"

Natasha shrugs. "Sometimes Steve makes french fries."

"It's a pain to clean the fryer, though," Steve says. "Especially because Natasha refuses to help."

"I wash the other dishes. I hold my weight."

"Right," Steve mumbles, accepting the vodka on the rocks that Natasha slides over. He takes a second to glance Sam's way. Sam is smiling as he watches Natasha shimmy to the spice cabinet and pull out the rosemary. It makes Steve smile, too.

"Want some?" Natasha asks as she starts digging out plates.

"If you have enough."

"We've got about eight potatoes in here. I think we'll be fine. Steve, why so many potatoes?"

Steve blinks. He doesn't actually remember cutting them up in the first place. "I was hungry?"

Natasha's glance is too knowing, but she doesn't call him on it. She divides the slices on the three plates and sets them out. Sam nods when Natasha holds the rosemary container over his potatoes.

"So," Sam says after a few minutes of silence, "I wanted to ask if you'd consider doing a commission for the VA."

Steve spears a piece of potato. "Like what?"

"A painting. Got some new space and wanted to spruce it up."

Steve puts his fork down. His mouth is dry. "What do you need?"

"It's not what we need. It's about what we want."

Steve frowns. "So, what do you want?"

Sam shrugs, cutting a potato. "Something real. Staring at inspirational posters from people who don’t get it doesn’t do the veterans any good. It just makes them more jaded."

Steve more than understands that feeling. Still, he says, "You haven't even seen any of my stuff yet."

Sam suddenly looks guilty. "I've seen a few pieces."

Surprised, Steve turns to Natasha. 

"I showed him a few things the other day when you were visiting Peggy." Natasha is boldly unapologetic. "No personal work, just past commissions."

Steve nods at her to show her he’s not upset. "When do you want it by?"

"Whenever. Can't rush art, right?"

"Give a deadline," Natasha quietly says. Steve throws her a grateful look. He works much better with stricter guidelines; the thought of having too much freedom for something significant makes him feel like he's drowning.

"Sure," Sam says, "Although I'm the first to admit I don't know how long would be appropriate."

"Three to five months?" Natasha suggests.

"Okay," Steve says after they both look at him expectedly. He can do that. 

He thinks.

*

Steve's last commission was for billionaire Tony Stark, which was completed nine weeks ago. (He still hasn't cashed the one hundred thousand dollar check that sits in his desk drawer. The only reason he hasn't shredded it entirely is because Tony told him flat out that it would be offensive.) He traces the blank pages of his sketchbook while he thinks.

"It doesn't have to be military related, you know."

"It's going to be inside the VA. Of course it does. I've just never done art for this type of scope before."

"You don't have to," Sam says.

Natasha eats popcorn from the couch, one eye on her documentary and the other on the sketchbook. Today's documentary is about women who fall in love with large objects. Sam had done a double take when he heard the commentary, but he's able to shrug off Natasha's odd tastes more easily each time he sees a new film she's watching.

Steve sighs. "If I hide from facing it, I'll be telling the other vets that it's okay for them to do it, too. That's not what the VA is for."

Sam's voice sounds approving when he says, "Whatever you think is best."

Natasha and Sam chat on the couch, sitting close by each other, but it's just background noise now. It's nice, though, letting their voices wash over them. Natasha even laughs, and at that, he lifts his eyes to look at them. Natasha has turned back to the TV, but Sam keeps watching her. He recognizes the look; he thinks he should be jealous, but he just wants to join them.

Shaking the thought, Steve turns back to his sketchbook and starts sketching their hands, only a few inches apart on the couch. 

Hands are his favorite thing to draw. 

*

The next Saturday is a little rough. Natasha spends most of the day in her room, claiming that she's working on her book, but Steve doesn't hear any keys clacking. He knows better not to bother her, so he's back at his sketchbook. His brain is as dry as a desert, though, so when Sam comes over, he's a little relieved.

"Okay," Sam says. He's decked out in dark blue jeans, a black leather jacket, and a henley. Steve stares at his collarbone more than is normal. Sam, however, gives indication that he notices or is bothered. "You're coming out tonight. Both of you."

Steve blinks. He _was_ relieved. "What? Where?"

"I'm meeting some folks from the VA at Penn Social. It'll be good for you to meet other people with shared life experience."

Steve falters. "I don't know..."

"Please?"

Steve heaves a sigh, but it's the 'please' that gets him. "Let me ask Natasha."

After calling her to the living room, Sam repeats the request. She shrugs.

"Guess I should get dressed, huh?"

"You don't have to. Those sweatpants are pretty sexy."

"Shut up," Natasha huffs, and she closes her door to change.

While they wait, Steve pulls out his phone and texts Clint. 

**Can you call me in an hour? Going out tonight and may need an excuse to leave.**

_Sure thing. But I'm very happy you're going out!!_

Steve shoves his phone back in his pocket, grabs his keys, and follows Sam and Natasha out the door, deciding to leave Bailey behind for once.

At the bar, a small group of people wave at Sam. Three of them smile, while the fourth simply nods. A pretty brunette, whose eyes are way too young to hold such a hollow expression - she has to be just a few years younger than he is. Steve is drawn to her right away.

She looks surprised when he chooses to sit next to her.

"Full disclosure,” Steve says. “I don't really know how to talk to people."

Her lips quirk slightly. "I feel you there."

He holds out his hand. "Steve."

She looks at him warily, then holds out her own. "Wanda."

"I'm supposed to ask what you're drinking, right? Or something like that."

"Or something," she agrees. "Some lager that Jake ordered. It's all right. Not my kind of thing."

"I can get you something," Steve says, and she snorts. He can't help but laugh, too. "I mean that in the utmost sincerity and without any romantic or hidden intentions."

"Okay," Wanda says. "Surprise me, I guess."

Steve nods and slips off the chair. On the way, he wraps an arm around Natasha. "What do you want?"

"Dirty martini, please." Natasha's eyes slide to Wanda. "Should I be jealous?"

"You know you're my number one girl," Steve says. "She just - looks familiar."

Natasha quirks an eyebrow. "From where?"

"No, not that I actually know her from anywhere. She looks familiar. Lonely, maybe."

Natasha hums. "Like us? That what you're trying to say?"

Steve squeezes her shoulder. "I'll be right back."

Natasha has taken the seat on Wanda's other side when he gets back. Wanda's swinging her legs while they talk, and she's smiling slightly. Steve sets Natasha's martini in front of her and a screwdriver in front of Wanda. For him, he steals Wanda's lager.

"Are you guys playing Hangman?"

Wanda actually _giggles_ at that, looking ten years younger. "I sense that Natasha's a cheater."

"I'm not a cheater; I'm resourceful," Natasha says, taking a deep drink of the martini.

Wanda mulls over the words. "You two serve together?"

"Yeah," Natasha says, her tone not exactly inviting to offer more information, but not rejecting, either. "What about you and these guys?"

"Nope," Wanda says. She doodles on the napkin before she says, "I'm not American. Different war."

Steve frowns, unable to place her accent. Still, he figures it doesn't matter. "I hope group's been good for you."

Wanda's now looking at anything but them. "Sure."

Natasha shakes her head slightly, and Steve downs half the lager. His phone buzzes in his pocket. He pulls it out and sees Clint's name.

"Hey."

"Hey! You need an out?"

"I'm good, actually," Steve says, taking a few steps away. "Things are going good."

"Yeah? That's awesome. Seriously. So, just saying. You know that if you ever want to go out, you can hit me up, right?"

Steve smiles. "I do know. Thanks, Clint."

"No problem. You good for the rest of the night?"

"Yeah. I'll call you later?"

"You bet. Night, Cap."

"Night." When he closes the phone, he notices that Sam is watching him. Sam gives a quick thumbs up with a questioning expression. Steve nods, and Sam beams. Steve shouldn’t be surprised by Sam’s intuition, but it still makes him feel warm inside.

Steve turns back to Natasha and Wanda and sees that their drinks are almost empty. "Want to play darts?" he asks Wanda.

She blinks at the change in conversation, but nods. Steve first swings by the bar and grabs them a refill.

Steve wins the first round of around the clock, but he passes his darts over Natasha anyway. He's starting to see blind spots at the corner of his vision, which means a migraine is coming soon. He sits at a corner table and rubs his temples. Natasha's voice washes over him but he doesn't pay it much attention until he's tugged to his feet. One arm is wrapped around someone's small shoulders. He stumbles slightly, but the person doesn't budge.

"My brother gets migraines," he hears.

"I've got him," and _there's_ Natasha; he can't help but instinctively reach out for her. "Thanks, Wanda. Sam, grab the door?"

Steve is carefully dragged and sat in the backseat of the car. Natasha climbs in after him. "I hope you weren't hiding this for very long," she murmurs.

"Nope," Steve whispers. "Just bad luck. Who's -" because he can hear the car engine and they're both in the backseat.

"Shh," Natasha says, so he leans against her and closes his eyes.

*

Steve wakes up abruptly, and before he opens his eyes, he knows he's in his own bed. He cringes as he gauges his pain; he remembers Natasha slowly helping him swallow water after taking his pills. They only work half the time, and he must have someone looking out for him because the pain has dulled considerably. Now he just feels worn and dried out.

He doesn't even have to move to know that Natasha is next to him. He knows her presence anywhere. He inhales, her familiar strawberry scent comforting. His fingers twitch weakly, and she immediately responds by lacing her fingers through his.

When he does open his eyes, he sees that Natasha is almost sharing his pillow. She smiles and mouths, _hi._

Steve quirks his lips back at her. He's about to try to speak when something suddenly brushes his leg. He jerks in surprise, but Natasha pats his hand before he say anything.

_Sam_ , she mouths.

Steve slowly rolls over, and she's right. Sam's flat on his stomach, asleep, face buried in Steve's other pillow. His leg brushes Steve's again. Deciding that this is too much stimulation for his still aching brain to handle, he rolls back over and closes his eyes again. Natasha leans in to kiss his forehead, but he moves at the last moment to brush his lips against hers. She's soft, and warm, and she returns the pressure slightly before pulling back, intaking a quick breath. He takes her hand again and tangles one of his legs with Sam's.

He feels _safe_.

*

The second time Steve wakes up, he's starving. The pain is basically gone, and when he opens his eyes, he sees that he's alone. He rolls on his back and lets out a breath. Reaching out to feel Natasha's side of the bed reveals that it's still a little warm.

" - it was okay, right?" Sam's voice drifts in.

"No. I don't do enough."

The faucet is turned on. "Steve said you almost died for him."

Steve pictures Natasha sitting on the counter, tapping her fingers. "Idiot did the same for me. Hence these migraines."

The water switches off. "You guys are strong, though."

"I'm not," Natasha says. Steve is shocked to hear how her voice breaks.

"What do you mean?"

"People kept telling me I was this hero for what I did. But really, I'm weak. I did it because I can't live without him. I would rather die before I let happen. He's all I got. I need him. I'm not strong enough to survive on my own. I'm _weak_."

"Loving someone is never weak. Needing someone is never weak."

Natasha's voice turns cold as ice. "You're wrong."

"Then I'm weak, too. So is Steve. And almost every damn person on the planet. You know what, Natasha? You saying that? It's insulting."

Steve automatically sits up in bed, his instinct to protest Natasha at the helm.

"Look me in the eyes and tell me I'm weak. Actually, swing by the VA and tell the vets I counsel every damn day that they're weak. I'm sure they'd appreciate that. Natasha, loving someone is the hardest thing you can do. Not wanting someone you love in your life? That's weak. _That's_ cowardly."

Steve is frozen in his bed.

"I never thought about it that way," Natasha says in a tiny voice.

"Good. Look...I'm sorry for saying it so harshly, but platitudes aren't exactly my thing."

"No...it's okay. I needed that." She pauses. "Want breakfast?"

Steve can hear the smile in Sam's voice. "Sure."

"Scrambled eggs okay? Was gonna add cheese, ham, and peppers. Easy to make a huge batch."

"I don't need that much food."

"It'll be for three. Steve's awake."

Sam laughs. "You guys are really creepy like that."

"You can go back and lay down with him," Natasha says to Sam, her voice a clear dismissal.

Steve rolls back over and closes his eyes. He hears Sam stop at the door. 

"I know you're awake."

Steve smiles. "Mm."

Sam crawls back into bed.

"How long were you here?" Steve says, not opening his eyes.

"Well, we got you back here around ten last night."

"What time is it now?"

"Eleven this morning."

Huh. Normally his migraines are longer than that. "Thanks."

"I didn't come for you, man. This bed's awesome."

Steve huffs out a laugh. "Right."

"Wanda wanted me to give you her number. She was pretty worried about you."

Steve turns over at that. "She doesn't even really know me."

Sam lifts an eyebrow. "So? Is that a prerequisite to care about someone's well being?"

"You're shelling out some harsh truths today."

"I gotta do what I gotta do. You guys are stubborn." Sam sighs. His fingers move like he doesn't know what to do with them. Finally, he brushes Steve's messy hair off his forehead. He starts to pull his hand away, but Steve holds his wrist for a moment longer. Sam leans in a little closer, and they stare at each other before Sam blinks. "Natasha's making breakfast," he says, his voice husky.

"Yeah," Steve says. Natasha. He kissed her. _Shit._ He pulls Sam's hand toward his chest and holds it tightly. "You smell like sunshine," he mumbles.

Sam laughs quietly. "I have no idea what that means."

"I like it."

A pause, Sam's fingers giving his a squeeze. Then: "I'm glad."

*

Brunch is only slightly awkward. Natasha makes Steve take more pills, and he acquiesces only because he's a little afraid of how tightly she's holding the spatula. Sam eats a whole helping, then finishes Steve's, who's still a little nauseated. Natasha picks out her peppers and cheese, leaving the rest. She's not avoiding Steve, per se, but she isn't quite looking at him, either. 

Sam collects their plates when they're done. "Thanks for making breakfast, Nat."

"Sure," Natasha says. She crosses her legs on her chair, making her look smaller.

"I thought that -"

"Why do you care?" Natasha says suddenly, her voice raised a pitch. "Why do you want to be around us?" 

"Natasha," Steve murmurs, stunned by her outburst, and she quiets.

Sam puts the last plate in the dishwasher. He doesn't look offended or upset. "Because I kind of like you guys."

Natasha clenches her jaw; already it looks like she’s regretted even saying anything. Her tone is more composed when she asks, "Why?"

Sam sets the dishwasher to run. Despite the tension, there’s an ease about him that Steve envies. "You know, every day I take care of other people. With you guys, I get to be around people who, deep down, feel like me. In the weirdest way, it's comforting. And you're not going to push me away. I'm annoying like that." He rubs his eyes as he looks at his watch. "Speaking of, I have to go to work; I took a half-day today. I'll bring food from that Italian place you like for dinner?"

Natasha's face is carefully blank, but Steve watches as she she continuously taps her feet under the table. "All right."

Sam leans in toward Steve, and Steve thinks he's gotta clap his shoulder, but he kisses the top of Steve's head instead. Steve blinks, and before he can say anything, Sam kisses Natasha's forehead before waving goodbye. Natasha watches him go with a stunned expression.

"I don't think I'm going to work today," she announces, like she's trying to gain back control of the situation.

Steve nods. "Bailey, go nap with Natasha."

"You don't have to -" Natasha begins, but Bailey is curled around Natasha's second pillow before she can finish the thought.

"It's all right. I'm just gonna sketch the basic design. Or try to."

Natasha nods slowly, and she kisses Steve's hair, right where Sam had kissed him moments earlier. He shivers, not able to look at her. Now that he knows how her lips feel, it's all he can think about.

The sketching doesn't go well. It gets to the point that he throws the sketchbook, grabs the red paint, and begins to dig his paintbrush on the mural, harsh, ugly angles of blood. Black is next, outlining bodies of his black ops unit. It isn't until he sees that one of the outlines goes right underneath a splash of red, red hair, and he feels the weight of Natasha's body as he catches her when her cord snapped. He kicks the stand over and red stains the floor.

Steve has to huddle on the couch and watch his favorite, soothing documentary about cooking before he comes back to himself.

*

Red still stains the floor when he opens his eyes, not even realizing he had closed them. Natasha looks at him with the saddest expression he's ever seen on her, and she crawls on the couch behind him and holds him close.

"Sorry," Steve manages to say, although he doesn't know exactly what he's apologizing for.

"Shh," Natasha says, and she hits replay on the documentary. He realizes that he doesn't even remember starting it. 

There is one thing he remembers, though. "I kissed you."

Natasha leans her forehead against the nape of his neck. "Yes. I wasn't sure if you were aware of it."

Steve grabs her hands that are wrapped around him. Slowly, and somehow with a steady voice, he asks, "Did you want me to be?"

Natasha takes a careful breath. "Yes."

Steve caresses her hands. "пожалуйста, прости меня."

Natasha sits up, forcing him up with her. She gently pushes him against one corner of the couch and crosses her legs. "Why? Why do I need to forgive you?"

"I didn't want you make you uncomfortable," Steve says, numb. Natasha isn't giving him an out on this one; normally, when they have something difficult to say to one another, they avoid English.

Natasha shakes her head. “Idiot."

Steve waits for something further, a rejection, a gentle let down, but there isn't one. He manages to say, "Huh?"

Natasha's eyes are wide now, almost terrified. She flexes her fingers, takes a deep breath, and slides on his lap. "You're an idiot," she says, "but I love you."

Steve holds her as tightly as he can without hurting her. He clamps his mouth closed because he can't ruin this. He swallows, and finally says, "Are you sure?"

Natasha laughs at that, but her eyes are wet. "Yes. I am so, very sure."

Steve's hand cups her scarred cheek. She grabs his forearm as if to stop him, but he simply caresses each line. "I can't live without you. I would rather die before I let that happen. I need you. I'm not strong enough to survive on my own."

Natasha, recognizing her own words, trembles on his lap. "I'm going to kiss you now. Can I do that?" 

In response, Steve kisses her scars, one hand now on the small of her back and the other on between her shoulder blades.

"Don't," she whispers. "Don't touch them, don't -"

"I love them," Steve breathes against her cheek. "They tell me that you love me. They're beautiful, and they're _yours_."

Natasha tilts his head until she can press her lips against his, slow, cautious, almost innocent. He lets her lead, gives her back control; her strawberry scent and small hands running through his hair sends chills down his spine. He can't help but gently press her fingers to his neck, letting her feel his pulse. She intakes a breath, and he pulls back slightly as they breathe into each other's mouths, almost matching his heart beat. He finds himself almost crying, because there's so much he wants her to have but he doesn't have nearly enough to give her. Eventually, she pulls back, kissing his face, the palms of his hands, his collarbone. "I don't know what to do," she says, vulnerable and raw and open. "I've never done this before."

Steve pulls away from her so he can look her in the eye. He has to take a few breaths before he can speak. "Done what?"

The steeled look is back on her face. "Love someone."

Steve smiles, tucking her hair behind her ear. "It's all right. We'll learn together."

Natasha gives one more kiss to his lips before she slides down, resting her head over his heart. He's only held one other person like this, and he was deployed before he could truly come to appreciate it.

He thinks Peggy would approve.

*

Steve makes sure to text a rain check to Sam for the Italian food, because he's spending the next three days in bed. This time, it's for a good reason.

He spends as much time as he can exploring her body, with his eyes, his fingers, his mouth. She grips his hair and trembles under his touch.

When they're spent, they curl together, softly breathing. "Remember that op in Prague?" Natasha whispers.

"When Rumlow...?"

"Yeah."

Steve frowns. He pushes back her sweaty hair. "What about it?"

"I didn't feel bad about him. At all. We worked with him for three years and I felt nothing when he died. He died in agony, and I felt _nothing._ "

"Would it make you feel better if I told you I didn't feel much, either?"

"Not really," Natasha sighs. "It did upset you. Not a lot; the guy was a jerk. But you did feel something."

"I'm not going to tell you that you're a bad person, ff that's what you’re expecting."

"It's not. I was trying to go somewhere else."

"You've got my attention."

Natasha purses her lips. "I almost came to you that night."

Steve knows what she means, but he can't help but ask anyway. "What do you mean?"

"I waited outside your door for half an hour. I wanted to crawl right in your bed. I wanted to tell you that you were the only person that makes me feel anything."

"I wish you had. I had plenty of chances too, though, and I didn't."

Natasha cuddles close. "Doesn't matter now. We're still young. Got lots of time."

Steve tilts her chin up to kiss her. "Damn straight."

*

He's avoided the painting for the past week, but he finds himself sitting in front of it the next Saturday. Steve cleaned the red paint off the floor and replaced the mural, but he hasn't touched it since. It is still frustratingly blank.

Natasha sits next to him on the floor, eating an Eggo off a paper towel. She's wearing one of Steve's shirts, which is slipping off one of her shoulders. He can't help but press his lips on her soft skin, loving her scent on his clothes. She hums.

"You can make this work."

Steve, only because he's tired of the self pity, shrugs. "Yeah." He looks back at her, at her messy ponytail, clean face, green eyes. He recognizes the chain around her neck, and he can't help but pull his own dog tags from under her shirt. He rubs his fingers over his name, sighs, and tucks them back under her shirt.

"Stop making this about what everyone else wants to see. Granted, I only know so much about the whole art experience, but I do know it's about _you_. The artist's feelings. Think about something that means a lot to you."

He nods, accepting a kiss from her before she stands up. She tastes like maple syrup. He watches as she settles into the armchair with her computer, giving him silent, comfortable company.

It's not surprising what comes first to his mind after that. Grabbing his sketchbook, he tears out his previous (useless) sketches, and starts again. 

*

Steve sends Wanda a well overdue text and tells her he's fine. She sends back a gif of the dancing man from the Jackson Hewitt commercials.

After he shows Natasha, she smiles and tells him to invite her over for dinner one night.

*

Once he's finished the sketch, Steve spends most of his time painting. It's like he's possessed. Natasha, bless her, is supernaturally patient as long as he eats meals with her and cuddles with her an hour a day. Not exactly a difficult task, because after being in full painting mindset, he needs to hold her to remember that she's here and safe and real.

Sam comes over most nights and either watches TV with Natasha, plays cards, or goes on runs with her and Bailey. Other times he'll prattle on about his day or tell stories about his mother. Steve finds that he's grown to love her through the stories alone. Thankfully, there's no residual awkwardness from the other day, though there are times when Steve looks up from his painting, he sees Sam watching him with a thoughtful expression.

Steve thought that once he admitted his feelings for Natasha, he wouldn't feel so confused.

Tonight, Sam makes pulled pork sandwiches with his mother's tangy BBQ sauce recipe. Natasha eats two huge helpings and considers having a third.

"Please tell your mother than we're marrying you so you can cook all day long. I hope she's all right with that because it's happening."

Sam laughs, but Steve doesn't miss how his eyes go back in forth between him and Natasha. "I'm pretty sure she wants to adopt you guys already. You'll have to meet her someday."

"Definitely," Steve says. He's in front of his painting, just eating the pork and leaving the hamburger buns on the plate.

"Something wrong?" Sam asks.

"Nah, just kind of got a headache."

Natasha stands up immediately, but Steve waves her down. "Not a migraine. Just was positioned awkwardly or something while I slept last night."

Sam puts his plate down next to him on the couch and beckons Steve with his hands. "Come. I have magic fingers."

Steve tries not to let his brain run wild with that imagery. "What?"

"Just sit on the floor in front of me already."

"Yeah, Steve," Natasha echoes. "Sit."

Steve lets out a groan that's almost obscene when Sam first digs his fingers into Steve’s shoulders. He clamps his lips shut in embarrassment.

"Oh," Natasha says. That's all she says, her eyes wide, unblinking. " _Oh._ "

Sam's hands still on Steve's shoulders. "What?"

Natasha simply blinks, then schools her face into a neutral expression. “Nothing. Carry on.”

Steve notices that she’s picking at what remains of her sandwich, but her eyes would look over at them so quickly only Steve notices. He focuses on Sam’s touch, his surprisingly soft fingers that gently stroke his neck, and he does his best not to shiver.

When he tumbles into bed an hour later, he can’t help but smile at how all the pain is gone, he feels almost weightless. His eyes fall shut and he takes a long inhale. Natasha curls around him, matching his breathing, and he doesn’t know how long they stay like that, silent and comfortable.

Finally, Natasha whispers, "Is it weird that I liked seeing him touch you like that?"

Steve pretends to be asleep. He doesn't want to agree with her out loud.

*

It takes Steve almost four months to finish his painting, which includes his meltdown and the days he spent staring at it blankly. However, he can't quite tell Natasha he's done yet, because he has to build up the confidence to show her.

"Stop pretending to work on it. I know you're done."

Damn. Steve looks up at her to find she's typing on her computer. "How did you know?"

"Because you have that constipated look on your face like you're trying to hide something."

Steve automatically reaches up to feel his face, as if he would be able to tell. "Liar."

"You don't have to show me right now if you don't want to, you know." She's still playing cautious, pulling open a book for reference. She's working on Sleeping Bag Guy's book.

Steve looks back at it. "Maybe when Sam gets here. Make sure it's all right."

Natasha puts down her book and finally looks at him. "It's going to be fine, I know it. I can wait, though."

Steve covers the painting and crawls into their bed. Natasha follows, laying on top of him and sinking her teeth into his neck.

"We've got an hour," she pants, and Steve grins, almost ripping her shirt off in his haste to feel all of her.

*

Natasha's in the shower when Steve hears Charlie whining in the hallway. "Door's open!" he calls out.

"Help," Sam says, his voice muffled through the door. "I got ramen from Daikaya and Charlie's trying to eat it."

"Give give give," Steve says, pulling the door open and grabbing the bags. "Thanks," he adds, pretending to close the door.

"I don't think so, asshole!" Sam muscles his way through, Charlie darting off to the kitchen to sniff Bailey's empty food bowl. "Fatty."

"You got me the spicy miso, right?"

"Duh," Sam says, going to the kitchen for some water. "No peanuts."

"You eat any of my shoyu and I will gut you!" Natasha yells from the shower.

"I already took a bite," Sam whispers with a wink.

Natasha's spinning her wet hair in a bun as she walks in. Opening her container, she gives it a careful look, then gives Sam a mock glare. "Samuel."

"Fuck me," Sam groans. Natasha simply holds out her bowl and waits until Sam puts a spoonful of his own ramen into hers. Steve doesn't miss how Sam tracks a drop of Natasha's wet hair down her neck.

Natasha keeps giving meaningful looks between Steve and the painting, until Sam finally asks, "Is there something wrong with your head?"

Steve glares at Natasha without heat. "I finished the painting."

"Yeah?" Sam sits up in his chair. "That's great! Can we see?"

Natasha twirls her chopsticks in her empty bowl. "Please?"

Steve chews on his lip. "Yeah, okay." He focuses on Natasha when he says, "Don't be mad."

Natasha raises an eyebrow, but she doesn't say anything as she follows him to the living room. She does, however, gasp when Steve pulls off the covering. She stares at the red headed woman who's sitting cross-legged on a military cot, with facial scars in full view. Beside those characteristics, it would have been nearly impossible to guess it was her, as Steve made her as vague as possible. The figure she's sitting with is also easy to discern solely because of one characteristic. The Steve in the painting has a buzz cut, due to the doctors having to shave his head to cut it open. Most important are their hands, which are exchanging dog tags. Their hands are perfectly detailed, covered in calluses, but holding each other with a gentleness that Steve hopes others viewing the painting would be able to feel themselves.

"I didn't think you even remembered that," Natasha says after what seems like forever. Her voice is dull.

"It's the first thing I remembered."

"We were discharged two weeks later," Natasha tells Sam. She still sounds mechanical, but she's clutching his dog tags under her shirt.

Sam notices, too. He doesn't take his eyes off the painting when he asks, "Where are her tags?"

"Under my pillow in our bed," Steve says, hesitant. He holds his breath, as neither of them have given any feedback.

"Oh," Sam says. His eyes dart to Natasha's room, where her bed lays stripped of her sheets and pillows. "As good a place as any."

"Fuck, Steve," Natasha says, which is especially striking because she doesn't swear very often. His heart drops when he sees that her eyes are wet.

"Are you mad?"

"I'm not _mad_ ," she says, her voice a little shaky. "Just - fuck." She reaches out to the painting and brushes their hands. "It's perfect."

"I gotta say that Natasha's right; it does make me want to cry," Sam says. "Are...are you sure I can take it?"

Steve finds himself looking at Natasha for her okay. She doesn't say anything. "I have the original sketch," he tells her, which was the right thing to say.

"Yeah, it's yours," Natasha says. "Take it now before I change my mind."

"Sure," Sam says, carefully lifting the painting. He smiles. "I'm nervous I'll drop it."

"I'll have to kill you," Steve says, deadpan. He helps take the painting to Sam's place and closes the door.

Natasha lays on the couch and beckons him to her. He obliges, carefully crawling next to her. She looks at the spot where the painting used to be, her eyes wide, as if she could stare at it forever and it wouldn’t be long enough. “I love you,” she whispers into his hair.

Steve doesn’t care how many times she could say that to him; it feels new and exciting every time.

*

Now that the painting is gone, Steve feels lighter than he has in years. He catches Natasha staring at his sketch almost every day; sometimes she’s smiling sadly, other times simply caressing the image. Steve doesn’t tell her that he’s seen her doing so - he senses that it’s a private moment and doesn’t want to intrude.

Natasha invites Wanda over for dinner, which Sam ends up cooking. Wanda brings a bottle of wine, but laughs at Natasha’s dubious expression.

“I thought that’s what one does when invited to dinner,” Wanda says with a shrug.

“No, no,” Natasha says, holding out her hand. “I’m sure it’s...lovely.”

Wanda has to be introduced to Cards Against Humanity, but with only four of them, it’s only so much fun. They end up turning on one of Natasha’s documentaries, and, with help of Sam’s beer and Natasha’s vodka, perform stupid voice-overs for all of the participants.

Wanda eventually excuses herself, giving Sam a knowing look. Sam’s mouth tightens when Wanda leans in, whispers something, and kisses his cheek before biddening them all goodbye. She slips in one last look among the three of them and smiles to herself.

Natasha is smirking, Sam looks awkward, and Steve’s confused. Natasha easily takes over the conversation, but Sam’s strangely quiet and Steve finds himself fumbling over his responses. Sam thankfully ends the evening by saying he needs to get up early for work.

“Talk to you tomorrow,” Steve calls out, and Sam nods as he closes the door.

“Oh, dear,” Natasha says, shaking her head, amused. 

“What?”

“Just get ready for bed,” Natasha says, one eyebrow raised. “I’m in the mood for some pillow talk.”

*

Steve dresses in one of his favorite t-shirts, which is so faded that the text is no longer legible. He doesn’t care, he loves how soft it is.

Once he’s in bed, laying on his pillow, Steve says, “Now are you going to tell me what that was about?”

Natasha lays on her side and props herself up. She’s so close that Steve feels her breath on his forehead. "Don’t you see? Sam likes us."

Steve gently tugs on a lock of her hair. "Well, I hope so."

Natasha narrows her eyes. "Don't be obtuse. It's not flattering. I see how he looks at us. I see the way you look at him, too."

Steve's hand stills on her hip. "I don't know what you're asking me."

Natasha kisses his jaw. "I'm not asking you anything."

Liar. "I don't really know how I feel. I guess...I guess I like him, yeah." He holds her tighter. "Are you mad?"

Natasha groans. "Oh, my God. _Stop_ asking me that. No, I'm not mad. You know when I'm mad."

A million thoughts run through his head, but he can only pick one. "So what are you saying?"

"I like him too," Natasha says after a moment. "I like how he makes me feel. How I feel about him, how I feel about you."

Steve strokes her side. "I like how he makes you feel, too."

"I know we're technically new, but it doesn't feel like it. It's been you and me all this time...but I've liked the three of us, too. Coming home after our tours...just didn't feel right. I didn’t have a clue how to fall back in line. You were the only thing that kept me anchored, until now."

Steve chews on his lip. "What does this mean? Do you want him in with us? Like in a relationship?"

"I don't know," Natasha says. "It's something I'd like to discuss though; what do you think?"

Steve bites his lip. "Wow. I just never thought I'd be with one person, let alone two. I guess I would feel like I’m tainting him."

Natasha doesn’t react to the implication that she is already tainted, because she knows that’s not what Steve meant at all. “You could never taint anyone. Never.”

Steve’s exhale is a little shakier than he’d like. He doesn’t believe her, not quite yet, but he’s willing to try.

Natasha must see the change of thought on his face, because she sits up, pulling him with her. "So."

"So."

"I thought we'd start about what we want individually with him," Natasha says, her tone going businesslike. Steve has to laugh. She frowns at him.

"I'm not laughing at you. Just seems like you're ready to create a spreadsheet or something."

Natasha rolls her eyes. "Physically - what would you want? Do you have limits?"

"I don't think so," Steve says slowly. "Is that something to consider first? Shouldn’t we be thinking of the emotional aspect? Him saying no, thinking we’re lunatics, and refusing to have anything to do with us?"

Natasha’s look is both exasperated and amused. "Again, I’ve seen how he looks at us. I don’t think he’ll say no. The problem will be convincing him that he’s not our side piece."

Steve bursts out laughing. “Side piece?”

Natasha flops onto her back. “You’re hopeless.”

“No, no, I’m taking this seriously. Very seriously.” Steve sobers up. "Okay. I don’t know exactly what I want, or don’t want physically. I’m just...willing to find out."

"I'll be honest. I'm not ready for that with him."

"What is it you want?"

Natasha holds a finger in his face. "Don't laugh."

"Never."

"I liked it when he was just laying in bed with us. When he sits close to me on the couch."

"Just cuddling, then?"

"Yeah," Natasha says. She looks almost embarrassed by the innocent desire. He has to lean in and kiss her - he has never loved her more.

"So what do we do?"

*

Six years of stealth operations should prepare them well for this assignment.

Sort of. There's only so much preparation you can do for what Natasha has deemed _Operation: Poly._

Natasha begins first, climbing on the couch next to Sam. She tucks her feet under his thighs. Sam gives her an odd look, shifting slightly, as if he thinks Natasha doesn't realize how close she's gotten. Before Sam can shift away too far, Steve slides on his other side. He pretends not to notice Sam's bewildered expression.

Natasha turns on the TV and settles in, dragging her blanket across her lap. Steve slips his hand through Sam's and settles in. It takes a second for Sam to tentatively relax his hold.

"Okay," Sam says. "I'm a little confused."

Natasha yawns. "What could possibly be confusing about this situation?"

Steve muffles a laugh, but he doesn't say anything. He's leaving this to Natasha.

She stares at Sam, unblinking. "You want to kiss him."

Sam's eyes go big. "What?"

"It's all right," Natasha says with a coy smile. "He wants you to kiss him."

Sam scoffs and turns to Steve, like Steve's going to tell him that Natasha's crazy. Steve, however, just gives him a soft smile.

"Nothing you don't want," he says.

For the first time, Sam is the one who sounds inarticulate. "Uh."

"Do you want to kiss me?"

Sam's eyes drop down to his mouth. "Yeah. Yeah, I do."

Natasha wraps her arms around Sam's shoulders. "Do it."

"Are you -" Sam begins, but Steve leans forward and kisses him before he can continue. Sam immediately opens his mouth and oh, _wow_ , it's better than he expected. He finds himself climbing on Sam's lap, able to rest his weight on Sam like he can't on Natasha. Sam grabs his hips and tugs him down; Steve releases Sam's mouth to gasp. He manages to opens his eyes and see Natasha, her eyes wide, panting.

"Wait, wait wait," Sam says, pushing him away. "Not that I didn't enjoy that - thoroughly - but can we maybe get on the same page here?"

"We both like you,” Natasha says, her simplicity probably both charming and bewildering to Sam.

“Shouldn’t this be a table conversation? As in, we all sit at the table and talk?”

“That’s the last place I want to be,” Natasha says, licking her lips.

Sam turns to Steve now, his expression almost humorously confused. “Can you translate Natasha talk?”

Steve, taking one last look at Natasha and gaining confidence with her nod, says, “We both like you. More than friends. We want to see what that means and where we can go with that. All three of us.”

Sam blinks. "I'll admit that I've thought about this. A lot. A ridiculous amount. I didn’t know what to do with it though...it’s not like I know anything about polyamorous relationships, or even know anybody who’s been in one. Do you guys?"

“Well, no,” Steve admits. “However, Nat and I - and you, I’m sure - are pretty good at living life when we want the best, but prepare for the worst...and when we don’t know what the hell we’re doing, we just make it work.”

“Making it work has kept both of us alive, and together,” Natasha says with a casual shrug, but Steve can see her shoulders slightly tensing.

"So you're telling me," Sam begins, and Steve squirms a little. "That I'm able to have two beautiful people at the same time?"

"Well,” Steve begins, “maybe not in the same way at first."

Sam looks intrigued when he says, "I'm going to need more details on that."

Steve and Natasha look at each other.

"I don't know if there is anything I don't want. Yet, anyway," Steve says. “With Natasha, I know almost everything. I’ve only had one relationship with a guy, and it didn’t progress very far.”

Sam nods. "I'd trust you to tell me if you do find something."

"Of course."

"And I like to hold and be held. Also to be scratched." Natasha turns to expose her back. "Like now."

Sam laughs, and acquiesces. "All right." 

"That's all I want right now," she says, her voice going almost cold, in that 'don't argue with me' tone. "I am, however, up for watching. Lots of watching. _All_ the watching."

Steve lets his hand trail up Sam's thigh; Sam pauses scratching Natasha until she clears her throat, and he resumes. 

"It wouldn't be Nat and me with you thrown in sometimes, just so you're aware. We want it to be the three of us together," Steve says, stilling his hand on Sam’s thigh until he waits for Sam’s approval. 

"I’m good with that,” Sam says, sliding down on the couch. Steve topples onto his lap while Natasha plasters herself along Sam's side. Natasha reaches out and holds Steve's hands. "I mean, our dogs whine whenever they're apart, so we should probably spend every day together. You know. For their own sake."

"Oh my _God,_ " Natasha groans. “You both make me sick. I have no idea how I can deal with both of you.”

“You’ll manage,” Sam says, reaching out to her back; she allows the touch, allows him to slip his hand underneath her shirt to caress her back. It’s so simple, so innocent, but Steve gets hard at the sight.

“I love you,” he murmurs to Natasha, and to Sam, Steve lays a hand on his inner thigh. “You are so sexy, so beautiful, and I want you with us,” he says softly against Sam’s neck. “Will you stay?”

Sam’s other hand grips Steve’s waist. “If you’ll have me, you’ll never be rid of me.”

Natasha exhales; only Steve can tell that it’s a sigh of relief. Steve gives Sam’s neck one last kiss.

“Good thing Bailey and Charlie get along, because we don’t plan on letting you go.”

Natasha hums in agreement, and the three of them collapse against each other on the couch, and Steve has never felt more safe.


End file.
